But in a far more immediate sense the great number of German victories is sapping the very sources of German power. I ask you, first of all, what are these flags made of? They are made of _cotton_; and more than that, they are rapidly wearing out. Much flapping in all weathers--victories have too often been allowed to occur in bad weather--has torn them to ribbons. The situation is serious: reserves are exhausted, and an attempt to introduce flag-cards has met with no support. Then let us consider fireworks. Is it not clear that the supply cannot be maintained without a steady munitionment of high explosives, more especially in the case of rockets? I need not labour the fact, which is sufficiently ominous, that iron crosses are made of iron, but I may point out that this expenditure cannot be made good by drawing upon the belfries, as the necessity for periodical bell-ringing has immobilized the bells. These facts should be more widely known. They have given me much comfort. Even the deplorable loss of the _Warspite_--the vast, latest hyper-super-Dreadnought of the Fleet and the pillar and the key, as I learn from my authorities--cannot wholly depress me. For well I know the dilemma that confronts our enemies, and that neither by victory nor defeat can they escape their doom. I am, dear Mr. Punch, Yours as usual, STATISTICIAN. * * * * * [Illustration: _Tommy._ "RATS, MUM? I SHOULD SAY THERE WAS--AND WHOPPERS! WHY, LOR' BLESS YER, ONLY THE DAY AFORE I GOT KNOCKED OUT I CAUGHT ONE OF 'EM TRYING ON MY GREAT-COAT!"] * * * * * Saving their Bacon. "THE GERMAN DESTROYERS RETIRE TO PORK." _Provincial Paper._ * * * * * "ST. AUGUSTINE'S SALE OF WORK.--This important annual event takes place in the Rectory grounds on June 14th, and everything indicates a successful day, if Father Neptune only smiles on the efforts now being put forward."--_Penarth Times._ We hope Uncle Ph[oe]bus will not be jealous. * * * * * A CONSCIENTIOUS OBJECTOR. 'Tis sad to read of these young lives Poured out to please a tyrant's whim; My manly soul within me strives To burst its bonds and have at him. But peace, my soul! we must be strong, For conscience whispers, "War is wrong." Poor lads! Poor lads! Their duty calls; _Their_ duty calls--no more they know; No fear of death their faith appals; All the clear summons hear, and go. 'Tis right, of course, they should; but I-- I serve a duty still more high. And yet not all. Some few, I fear, In this their country's hour of need Keep undemonstratively clear, Or, if they're called, exemption plead. For these--no conscience-clause have they-- Conscription is the thing, I say.